


Alone With You

by randi2204



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: 3K Round-up Challenge, Alcohol, Angst, M/M, Pining, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7102546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I don't see you laugh/ You don't call me back/ But you kiss me when you're drunk.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone With You

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** Inspired by “Alone With You” by Jake Owen, hence the title.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** They belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy, not to me.

The first time, Ezra was almost too shocked to do anything other than just go along with it.  The second time, he simply couldn’t believe it was happening _again_.  The third and fourth and fifth… well, he counted those as good fortune, and desperately tried to see nothing more to them.

 

But he wasn’t so caught up in the moment that he didn’t realize one very important thing.

 

Chris was drunk.

 

***

Something was preying on Chris’s mind.  Just what it was, of course, Ezra didn’t know.  But Chris sat in the saloon all evening, whiskey bottle at his elbow and the contents within disappearing steadily.

 

And he _watched_.  Those dark eyes rarely turned away from Ezra; even when he tipped whiskey from bottle to glass, Chris didn’t spare a glance to see what he was doing, each movement practiced and sure.

 

Ezra had often been the object of Chris’s scrutiny.  For weeks after they’d returned from that first adventure, Chris had kept a close eye on him.  And for all that he knew down to his bones that he wasn’t trustworthy, that he’d _earned_ this wariness, Ezra found it was still… painful to know that he wasn’t trusted.

 

 _That_ Chris _doesn’t trust me,_ he had often qualified the thought, because _that_ was the true point, that, even knowing how foolish it was, he somehow wanted Chris to depend on _him_ despite everything that he was, like Chris depended on Vin, on Buck.

 

He’d behaved himself – well, mostly – and eventually Chris had stopped that untrusting watch over him. 

 

It was then, of course, that Ezra had discovered being the subject of that intense gaze wasn’t nearly as bad as _not_ being.

 

Once he realized that Chris wasn’t watching any of the men playing in his game, that Chris was staring at _him_ , he basked in the exhilaration of that regard for a long while.  It took him longer than he liked to ask himself _why_ Chris was watching him.  _My behavior has been exemplary of late_ , he thought, shuffling and casting a quick glace across the saloon.  His nerves, which had fairly hummed when he’d noticed Chris studying him, went suddenly numb at the thought that Chris might no longer accord him whatever small place he’d had.

 

 _I thought we were past this… this distrust_ , he thought, dismal and heavy, even as his hands flashed over the cards to deal another round.

 

The other men started to drop out, one by one, as he took what they were willing to risk.  He could still feel Chris’s gaze on him, almost a physical touch, but he didn’t look that way again, concentrating solely on the game, and his face ached from his smile.

 

When at last he’d won, he stood, ready to retreat to his room.  Before he could make it to the stairs, however, Inez beckoned him to the bar, wearing a pretty frown.  “Señor Ezra,” she said, voice low, “please, will you take Señor Chris out of here before…” She trailed off, biting her lip, but Ezra knew well what she meant – before Chris took it into his head to destroy things.

 

Luckily, there wasn’t anyone else in the saloon – _or,_ Ezra thought, _perhaps it’s unlucky, as it means neither Buck nor Vin are here to do this duty in my stead._   Aloud, however, he said, “I shall try, señorita.”

 

She gave him a smile, though it was small and tight.  “Thank you, señor.”

 

When he turned to make his way to the table Chris had claimed, he saw that Chris’s eyes were very low-lidded, but still on him, still watching him, and his lips were curved in a tiny smug smile, as if he knew what Ezra was going to do and was determined to make it as difficult as possible for him.  As if he truly had lost whatever feeling of… comradeship he might have felt.  “Ezra.”

 

He heard Inez depart behind him, behind the bar into the back of the saloon, as if that had been the cue for which she’d been waiting.  _But she hasn’t even turned down the lanterns,_ he thought with just a tinge of desperation.  _She’ll be back… but what am I to do with him in the meantime?_

 

It wasn’t often Ezra felt such an agony of indecision. In the end, with a deep sigh, he pulled Chris upright, got a shoulder under his arm to support him as he swayed.  “Come, Mister Larabee,” he said, his tone one of false cheer.  “I believe it’s time to sleep off tonight’s indulgence…”

 

“Where we goin’?” Chris slurred.  He staggered, tightening his arm around Ezra’s shoulders and dragging him along.

 

“Back to your rented room, Mister Larabee,” Ezra replied, righting them once again, and trying to direct them toward the door.  “I believe you’ve reached the point of inebriation…”

 

But Chris was still off-balance enough to send them careening into the wall. Ezra hit first, then, gasping for air, cushioned Chris’s impact.  It was a measure of how out of sorts he was that it wasn’t until he’d started breathing normally again that he realized that Chris hadn’t fallen away, was still pressed close against his front, whiskey-soaked exhalations wafting over his face.

 

“Was watchin’ you,” Chris muttered, and leaned away a little, his groin pushing hard against Ezra’s, causing Ezra to suck in a breath at the unexpectedness.

 

“I… noticed,” Ezra managed, trying to find some way to ease Chris back, or, failing that, to slide out from between him and the wall.  His nerves had started tingling again at the close contact, and silently, he cursed his own lack of observation that he hadn’t recognized _this_ – what had happened to him – for what it was.

 

It wasn’t simply Chris’s _regard_ he wanted… that he needed.

 

“Wanted to know…” Chris trailed off.  With Chris slumped against him, using Ezra to support himself, Ezra discovered they were of a height; he could look right into Chris’s shadowy green eyes.

 

Then Chris leaned back in, rubbed his stubbled cheek clumsily across Ezra’s.  Ezra closed his eyes, but didn’t – _couldn’t_ – move away.  His breath caught in his chest at the brush of Chris’s lips against his ear, at Chris’s fumbling touch, callused fingers snagging on the brocade of his vest, the warmth of him so close…

 

He tasted whiskey with every inhale he managed to make, a reminder he didn’t need that this was dangerous territory, that he should do only what he’d originally intended – get Chris back to his boarding house room, and pretend that nothing else had happened.

 

 _But I’m not,_ he thought, and the knowledge was thick and heavy in his throat.  Even before he summoned the strength to push Chris back a step, he knew he was going to help Chris up to his own room, knew he would let events run their course and simply hope he was able to face the inevitable consequences.

 

Despite being a fool to allow it to happen, he wasn’t so much a fool as to expect this _wouldn’t_ have consequences of some kind.

 

Somehow, he levered Chris away from himself, held him propped up when he would have fallen.  “As… interesting as this is,” he said, licking his lip, “it would seem to me the open room of the saloon is not the best arena to explore your…” He trailed off as Chris blinked at him, clearly too inebriated to follow the winding path of his words, and licked his lips.  “Perhaps someplace more private?” he finished instead.

 

Chris smiled, a slow curl of his lips that made Ezra’s heart pound faster.  “Yeah… reckon that’s a good idea.”

 

Before Chris could turn and, given his lack of balance, fall, perhaps dragging Ezra with him, Ezra got his shoulder under Chris’s arm once more, pointed him toward the stairs instead of the saloon doors.  Chris leaned against him hard again, fingers plucking restlessly at the collar and lapel of his jacket, while Ezra struggled to keep them both upright and moving forward.

 

By the time they reached his room, Ezra was sure that he would spend the night with Chris but alone at the same time, with only unrequited desire and drunken snores for company.  With a soft sigh – _what on earth was I thinking?_ – he maneuvered Chris to the bed and knelt to remove his boots and spurs.

 

When that task was completed, he rose again.  “Lie down, Mister Larabee,” he ordered quietly and pushed at his shoulders to start him falling in the right direction.

 

Chris wavered under the pressure of his hands, then grabbed hold of his wrists in a surprisingly strong grip to keep himself upright.  “What’re you doin’?” he asked, his tone belligerent.

 

Ezra slowly let up, but couldn’t pull away. “I am tryin’ to get you into bed…”

 

With a grin that Ezra might have called _charming_ under other circumstances, Chris tugged at him hard.  “Sounds good to me…”

 

“Before you pass out,” he finished bluntly, trying to maintain his balance against Chris’s pull.

 

The grin disappeared.  “Ain’t gonna pass out,” Chris growled, and let go of Ezra’s wrists to grab his coat instead.  “’Least not yet, so c’mon.”  He yanked at Ezra’s lapels, uncoordinated with drink, truculent, demanding.

 

Ezra hesitated and suffered another tug, a deepening of the frown Chris wore, before letting the decision he’d already made carry him along.  “Very well, Mister Larabee.”  He offered the sheepish smile that sometimes worked with his mother.  “But I believe you’ll need to release me so I may disrobe.”

 

Chris let him go with a look that said without words how much he trusted _that_ , even as Ezra shrugged out of his jacket and laid it carefully over the chair.  Only when he started undoing his vest did that expression of doubt begin to fade.

 

 _As if I could resist,_ he thought, nerves humming again as Chris smirked at him.

 

But Chris’s patience, never terribly long-lived to begin with, visibly shortened when Ezra bent to remove his boots.  “C’mon, hurry up,” he muttered and reached out to grab him.

 

Quickly, Ezra divested himself of his boots and let Chris take hold of him again to reel him closer, between Chris’s spread knees.  “You still must remove the rest of your clothes,” he said faintly, fighting to retain even a semblance of self-control as Chris ran clumsy, eager hands over his sides, his chest.  “And I…”

 

“Takin’ too long,” Chris replied.  He started to fumble with the buttons of Ezra’s fly, intent on his goal.

 

The brush of Chris’s fingers against the front of his trousers made Ezra feel light-headed, made his sex press forward, seeking Chris’s touch.  He bit his lip, trying to ground himself somehow, to assert at least some control over this situation he’d let himself get into.  “Mister Larabee…” The sound of his own voice gave him pause, breathless and pleading, and not at all how he wanted the words to come out.   His hands settled on Chris’s shoulders, though whether to push him away or keep him from pulling away, he had no idea.

 

Chris finished undoing his trousers, reached inside to find his drawers, stroking over the shape of his manhood as it twitched and lengthened.  Ezra swallowed hard against the moan that wanted to escape his mouth.

 

 _No,_ he thought, _I’d never be able to resist_ this… _Why did I think I could?_

 

He took a breath and let his hands slide down Chris’s front, until he could find the buttons of his shirt.  He undid them all as far as he could reach, pulled Chris’s shirt loose from his trousers with some effort.  “Lift your arms,” he ordered, and when Chris complied with a drunken leer, he drew the shirt off still half-buttoned.

 

“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Chris murmured approvingly.  He twitched Ezra’s suspenders off his shoulders, and Ezra felt his trousers flutter down to pool around his ankles.  He kicked them aside, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and dropped to his knees, his hands on Chris’s legs.  Chris gave him another smug little grin.  “Yeah,” he said, the sound almost a purr.  “Yeah.”  He curled his fingers against Ezra’s scalp.

 

Ezra slid his hands up Chris’s thighs, firm with the muscles of a born horseman, until he reached his groin, and there let his fingers dance over the outline of Chris’s sex.  Chris moaned, a soft breathy noise that Ezra felt in every part of him. It made his fingers tremble, made the air too thick to breathe.

 

Then Chris leaned back, bracing himself with his hands behind him and arching up a little into Ezra’s touch.  Ezra popped the first button on his fly, then, staring up at Chris’s whiskey-softened face, licked his lips and undid the second.  Slowly he continued, until Chris’s fly gaped open and he could feel bare skin, the hard length of Chris’s member.  Chris bucked up again against his hand, eyes closed, lips open on a silent gasp.

 

Ezra felt his chest tighten at the sight, his breath short and fast.  He skimmed his fingers along Chris’s sex, tracing the vein that ran up his length to the crown, watching Chris’s face contort with pleasure.  Chris groaned, jerked his hips under Ezra’s hand, then opened his eyes and grabbed for that hand when he drew it away.  “Ezra…”

 

“Patience,” Ezra replied lowly, and tugged Chris’s pants down as far as his position allowed.  “Up,” he urged, and Chris tried to lift himself up enough for him to work those sinfully tight pants down over his ass, but he lacked the necessary balance and nearly toppled off the bed.  Ezra eased him back down, frowning, and his earlier doubts rose again, trying to gain his attention through the fog of desire.  He pulled back a bit, his hands trailing down over the outside of Chris’s legs.  Then he glanced up at Chris, at his bare chest, pants gaping open not even halfway down his thighs, and let those doubts slip away for a little longer.

 

Chris was frowning at him, as if sensing what he was thinking; he often seemed to know.  Ezra licked his lips and leaned forward, bracing himself with his hands on either side of Chris’s hips.  “Balance, Mister Larabee,” he said, and blew a waft of warm breath across Chris’s groin, relishing the sound of his groan.  “A consummate horseman such as yourself should have no difficulty…”

 

A spark of anger crossed Chris’s face at the challenge, and this time when he lifted up, Ezra was able to pull his pants off before his balance deserted him.  Ezra dropped the trousers on the floor, then skinned out of his shirt without unbuttoning it and let it fall with a carelessness he couldn’t spare a moment to regret, because almost as soon as his arms were free, Chris dragged him onto the bed.

 

Chris’s breath heated his face, strong with alcohol, and Ezra couldn’t help but imagine that he was getting drunk on the fumes alone.  _Nothing else could explain this madness,_ he thought distantly, with what little of his mind could be torn away from the sheer _sensation_ of Chris’s body against his.

 

But he couldn’t stop, not now, not even if Chris took exception to this in the morning and tried to kill him.

 

He had no doubt he would be blamed.

 

“Still wearin’ these,” Chris growled, rolling them to their sides and pawing at Ezra’s drawers.  Ezra stifled the groan building in his throat and arched forward into Chris’s touch, eager for more, even as he reached forward to pull Chris against him.  Chris was warm beneath his hands, everywhere they touched.

 

Chris finally fumbled his drawers open, and his fingers brushed Ezra’s sex.  This time, he couldn’t quite swallow his groan.  Chris pushed his shoulders to the bed and rose up over him, his manhood sliding against Ezra’s own.  Sucking in a breath, he slid his hands down Chris’s back and curled them into Chris’s buttocks, pulling him closer, his own body straining up for more contact.

 

Then Chris braced himself on his forearms, and Ezra felt whiskey-wet kisses pressed along his jaw, back to his ear, down his throat.  He closed his eyes, tilted his head in a wordless request for more, and Chris obliged, thrusting against him, driving the need inside him higher and higher.

 

It was enough like a dream that suddenly, he couldn’t bear _not_ to look

 

Chris’s skin was golden in the light of the lamp, and Ezra couldn’t keep from touching him, pinching his nipples just to hear the hitch in his breathing, raking his shoulders for another delicious gasp in his ear.  His hands returned again and again to his ass, to pull him close, for leverage to grind up against him, just to _feel_ him.

 

He whispered in Chris’s ear, urging him on, not quite begging for more, only to break off, panting, when Chris nipped at his ear, surging against him all the while.

 

Then Chris kissed him, tongue driving inside his mouth to fight with his own.  Caught in the heat of the moment, Ezra let him, kissing him back with a need that surprised even him.  He lifted one hand to tangle in Chris’s hair, holding him there though Chris didn’t seem to want to pull away.

 

His climax took him by surprise, rolling over him in a wave of pleasure so intense that he couldn’t breathe.  His grip on Chris’s hips tightened as he shuddered and fought for air, his seed pulsing to cover his belly.

 

Chris continued to thrust against him, sliding through the slick mess on his stomach, and those gasping pleasure sounds echoed in his ear.

 

A moment or two later, Chris went still in his arms, and the long gush of Chris’s breath against his ear, the tremors that rocked him, the warm, sticky spurt coating his belly, told Ezra that Chris had followed him over the edge.

 

Chris sagged down to cover Ezra like a blanket.  “Good,” he sighed, and a warmth other than desire filled Ezra’s chest.

 

Then, even before the heat of his climax had faded from Ezra’s skin, Chris rolled away, and began snoring into the pillow.

 

Ezra held himself very still for a moment, listening to Chris’s breathing, waiting for his own heart to stop pounding.  When it did, when he was certain Chris was asleep, he relaxed into the featherbed, blowing out a breath as softly as he could.

 

He hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected to be so quickly… dismissed? Abandoned? He shied away from that word and turned his head to glance at Chris, fast asleep on the other pillow.

 

 _No, not expectin’ it,_ he thought, _but expectin’ it all the same_.

 

Weariness dragged his eyelids down, chased away any thought of wiping himself clean.  Instead, he pulled up the sheet and quilt and shifted onto his side to stare at the line of Chris’s back, his hair gleaming gold in the light through the curtains.  He closed his eyes.

 

He had wanted this and, for whatever reason, so had Chris.  Tomorrow morning, however, might be another matter. 

 

***

Ezra woke when Chris groaned and lurched out of bed, but kept his eyes closed and his breathing even.  It had afforded him an advantage too many times when those who had lost at his table tried to coerce him to give back their money. 

 

He listened as Chris stumbled carefully about the room, collecting his strewn clothing, then, too curious, too anxious not to see, he opened his eyes a slit, trying to watch Chris through his eyelashes.

 

The room was light enough to tell him it was morning, but still early; few people would be about.  Despite the hours of sleep, Chris appeared tired and terribly hungover, wrung out as he fought his way back into his clothes.  He didn’t even glance at the bed as he quietly opened the door and slipped out.

 

For a long moment, Ezra stared up at the ceiling.  _I believe I have my answer_ , he thought, and tried not to think about the furtive, almost ashamed way Chris had departed his room, or how that boded for his future.

 

***

After pretending to sleep to what he considered a reasonable hour, Ezra made his way into the saloon, somewhat wary of his reception.

 

Chris wasn’t there, though, and Ezra let his shoulders loosen a little, let a self-deprecating smile play about his mouth.  _He probably went back to his room at the boarding house to have his morning-after without others to see,_ he thought.  _That he would not have to talk to me is simply… a windfall._

 

Finding none of his compatriots in the saloon, he pasted on his best blandly pleasant look and pushed out the swinging doors.

 

***

And nothing really changed.

 

Chris had as little to say to him as before, had as little regard for his gambling and his fine clothing.  He joined in the poker games when the mood suited him, and held himself aloof the rest of the time, sharing his thoughts only with his old friend or his new one.

 

And, occasionally, he drank himself into Ezra’s bed.

 

It didn’t happen very often; in fact, if Chris was in his bed once in a month, Ezra counted it a blessing unlooked for.

 

But he did look for it, and looked forward to it, greedily taking all he was given, wary of asking for more, but wanting it nonetheless.  He wanted something that didn’t disappear with the whiskey fumes, wanted something that didn’t get lost in Chris’s mornings-after. Something _real_.

 

He knew, though, that his want was the only thing Chris wanted in return.

 

And for all his words, for all his ability to circumlocute the truth, he didn’t have a way to get around _this_.  He knew better than to even think about broaching the subject with Chris.  Just the way Chris crept out of his room in the early morning hours told him more than he wanted to know.

 

It hadn’t really happened.

 

 _Well then,_ Ezra thought. _For Chris, it hasn’t happened, and trying to discuss this… this non-existent matter with him will only…_ He tried not to think about what might happen if he _did_ decide to bring it up, because the only outcomes he could see for it were… unacceptable ones.

 

Instead, he sealed his lips against the words that wanted to come out, keeping them bottled inside and hoping they’d disappear with the whiskey.

 

Instead, perhaps for the first time ever, he tried to be content with what he was given.  Wanting _more_ – wanting something Chris was clearly unwilling or unable to give – would only lead to pain.

 

***

Softened by the pillow, Chris’s snore was familiar and almost welcome, so Ezra couldn’t blame that for his wakefulness.  _I should be sleepin’ the blissful sleep of the sated,_ he thought.  _There’s no reason at all to be layin’ here awake._

 

Except there was.  Chris lay half on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow.  The covers rode low on his back, just barely covering the swell of his backside, and his skin gleamed golden in the light from the lantern.  His other arm lay draped over Ezra’s side, not quite holding him, but not quite loose enough for Ezra to slip away.

 

Ezra wasn’t trying to slip away, though.  He was simply content to lay there, close enough to feel the heat rising from Chris’s body and the weight of his arm, enjoying a closeness that he’d never had before.

 

Moving carefully – even though Chris was deeply asleep, worn out and whiskey-tired – Ezra rested his hand lightly on Chris’s back, just above where the sheet lapped over.  Chris’s skin was warm, firm over the muscles of his back, and Ezra let his fingers drift in tiny circles on the expanse, losing himself in the need to touch.

 

Moments like this made him think that the sleep he lost watching Chris was well spent.

 

It wouldn’t – couldn’t – last; whether or not he fell asleep under Chris’s protective arm, when he awoke, it would to be to the sensation of fading warmth along his side or his back, and Chris groaning his way from the bed.

 

But for now – for just this moment – it felt like everything he wanted was his, and Ezra closed his eyes, wanting to believe it was so.

 

***

The days all ran together, with little other than gunfights and bar fights and the rare fights between themselves to keep one day or week or month from being the same as all the others.

 

It would have been easy, Ezra knew, to lose track of how often Chris joined him in his bed.  But while the days often blurred in his memory, the nights when he had Chris to himself, when he could touch him and feel his touch in return… those nights did not.  Each one was distinct, as precious to him as a pin with a real diamond, and perhaps – oh, how his mother would cut him with her disapproval – even more so.

 

Chris did not feel the same way; while his gaze might linger on Ezra more now than in the past, there was little difference in how he treated Ezra, no change in how he left Ezra’s bed.

 

 _Why should I remember these nights any differently than_ he _does?_ Ezra asked himself after watching Chris slink from his room.  He rolled over and pounded his fist into the pillow where Chris had slept.  _Why should I bother?  Maybe I should just… stop.  Stop keeping track, stop hoping…_

 

At that moment, he realized something very important.

 

It hurt.  This thing that lay between them, the unspoken words in Ezra’s throat and those that Chris could only say from the depths of a whiskey bottle… it _hurt_.

 

Not a physical ache in any way… and yet, something that was _almost_ real, _almost_ painful in his chest.  Something he desperately wanted not to feel, wanted not to put a name to.

 

And once he started thinking about it, he realized that it wasn’t just _now_ , just this moment after Chris had left the bed, because he recognized it.  It welled up at the strangest times; not just when Chris was in view, but other times as well, as if the very thought of him was enough to cause Ezra pain.

 

 _How unfair,_ he thought, numb at what had been revealed to him.  But at the same time, he knew he’d been aware of what was happening all along, known and ignored it in favor of _having_ what he was allowed.

 

Trying to accept what he’d been offered, he realized, didn’t mean he’d stopped _wanting_ more, and pretending he had what he wanted when he didn’t only made it hurt worse when he was so thoroughly proven wrong.

 

 _Mother always said it was foolish to care,_ he thought distantly, staring at the curtained window without seeing it or the sunshine that filtered through.  _And it would seem that I’ve been… exceedingly foolish._

 

Sleep would not return to wrap him in its arms, and he rose when he couldn’t stand his bed any longer.  The very act of dressing and leaving his room kindled dread in his stomach, as if, somehow, they would _know_.

 

But the others didn’t seem to notice Ezra’s preoccupation, or that his face was a bit haggard from the lack of sleep; if they did, they didn’t care enough to ask.

 

***

Chris couldn’t possibly know about his revelation, but that didn’t stop Ezra from hoping he _would_ , hoping that the knowledge would have the effect he longed for.

 

But the days passed in the same way as all the others before, each one alike and all of them endless.  Chris said nothing to him during the day beyond what was necessary, said nothing to him at night unless it was driven by alcohol.

 

So he waited, and he watched, and told himself the ache in his chest was anything other than what he knew it was.

 

He didn’t know how to make it stop.  All he knew was it hurt.

 

***

It seemed as if it took too long before he realized that there _was_ a way to make the hurt stop… but it would make it hurt worse first.

 

 _But then,_ he thought wryly, chancing a glance across the saloon to Chris’s table, _what do I have to lose?  Nothing, it would seem, and nothing to gain._

 

First, though, he would have to wait for the evening to run its course, for Chris to slide into his bottle and make the climb to Ezra’s room.  Then the final hand could be played.

 

In the meantime, there were gentlemen sitting at his table waiting for entertainment and games of chance, so he summoned up his best smile – it felt a bit ragged around the edges from being worn so much – and readied his best patter.

 

The knowledge of what was to come was too distracting, however, and the game was uneven, unsatisfying.  The men who had sat down to play one by one drifted away, their pockets substantially lighter.  Ezra was left alone at his table to rue his choices.

 

“Looks like your playmates all ran away, Ezra.”

 

Ezra glanced up to find Chris standing – weaving – by his chair.  An exaggerated glance around told him the saloon was empty, and he affected surprise.  “Indeed they have, Mister Larabee.”

 

Chris leaned forward, bracing himself on the table.  “I’ll play with you,” he said, wearing that charming, teasing grin that made Ezra ache inside.  “But not here.”

 

No, of course not.  Slowly, Ezra tucked his cards into his coat and stood, taking his accustomed position under Chris’s arm when Chris teetered precariously.  “Shall we?” he asked, already maneuvering Chris toward the stairs.

 

He had intended – really, truly – to speak as soon as he’d closed the door to his room, to reveal to Chris… _everything_.  But Chris, as he might have expected, upended his plan with a kiss that stole his breath and drowned his words, clouding his thoughts until nothing was left but desire.

 

And when his thoughts reformed, Chris lay next to him, snoring, one arm draped over him, holding him in place.  Lightly, Ezra traced a runnel on Chris’s arm, a pale scar left behind by some bullet, and again weighed the ache in his chest against having _this_ much, if no more.  _Perhaps,_ he thought, biting his lip and shivering at the tender, well-kissed feel of it, _perhaps… another chance.  After all, I have been the recipient of such chances… Just one, just to see…_

 

It was a dangerous idea; just one chance could become just one more after that, and then another, without end, until… until.  _Until I am consumed,_ he thought, and his fingers paused where they stroked Chris’s shoulder.  Chris shifted, made a soft sound, and Ezra resumed the light brush of his fingertips against Chris’s arm.  Chris settled once more, his skin warm and gold in the faint glow of the lamp, and Ezra could not tear his eyes away.

 

He was still awake when Chris woke, heard his familiar groan at his morning-after head, felt him stiffen as he realized where he was.  The bed shifted as Chris inched himself to the edge and upright.

 

Again, nothing had changed.

 

And suddenly, it was just too much to bear, too much that he cared – that he was so invested in this man who cared so little for him, that Chris was so ashamed of himself afterwards that he couldn’t bear to speak.

 

He waited until Chris was dressed, until he had nearly reached the door before opening his eyes.  “Chris.”

 

Chris twitched and went very still, his hand on the doorknob.  For a moment, Ezra couldn’t help the pang of sympathy, the spark of humor.  _This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,_ he could almost hear Chris protest.  _You’re not supposed to be awake!_

 

But that moment of amusement fled quickly.  He’d stayed awake chasing his thoughts in circles, and now was the time.  Even so, he still had to force the words from his too-dry throat.  “As much as it… pains me to say this… you are not welcome in my bed unless you are sober.”

 

Under his jacket, Chris’s shoulders hunched, and his words sounded as if they were dragged out of his mouth all unwilling.  “Did I… hurt you?”

 

Ezra laughed, a soft humorless sound.  “No, I am uninjured… though perhaps not entirely unhurt.” Then, before his mouth could leap ahead of his brain again – before Chris could formulate any questions he didn’t want to answer – he turned onto his side, giving Chris his back.  “Good day,” he said quietly, and closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar sounds of Chris leaving; the door opening, the soft jingle of spurs as Chris stepped out, the door closing again with a soft ‘click’.

 

After the door closed behind Chris, it took a long while for Ezra to relax in the silence, and longer still for him to fall into exhausted sleep.

 

***

A curious dread filled him after he woke and dressed, something that prevented him from leaving his room.

 

There was no mystery as to what had occasioned it, though; he didn’t want to know what his words of the morning had wrought.  Or perhaps he simply didn’t want to _confirm_ it, because he already knew the outcome.

 

Instead, he spent the afternoon tucking necessities into his saddlebags.  _After all,_ he thought wryly, _a quick getaway might become necessary… or at least preferable to the alternative._

 

As afternoon drew on into evening, he considered all the things he might do to escape the fate he’d brought upon himself – everything from slipping down the back stairs and just riding away to sliding into the bottle he’d conveniently tucked into his writing desk yesterday.  Neither seemed likely to work in the long run.  _Drownin’ myself in the bottle means I’ll still be here when I wake up again,_ he thought, running his fingers over the bottle’s cork.  _And leavin’…_ He sighed.  _Well, leavin’s just as impossible as stayin’, because leavin’ means…_

 

His fingers tightened on the bottle, and he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.  Instead, he tucked the bottle away.  _Might need it more later_ , he decided.

 

Buck and Nathan knocked on his door at least twice apiece throughout the afternoon and evening, wanting to make sure he was all right.  “I’m a bit under the weather but am in no… distress,” he lied through the door.

 

 _What will they think after… after I leave?_ he wondered.  The thought of leaving his associates behind hurt, too; not as much as leaving Chris behind, but more than he’d ever believed it would.

 

Evening had given way to night the next time a knock came on his door.  He sighed, then called, “Mister Wilmington, I assure you, I have not expired since the last time you or Mister Jackson checked on my well-bein’.  As I’ve told you repeatedly, it’s nothin’ a night’s sleep won’t cure, and I’ll be my usual charmin’ self tomorrow.”

 

He waited for Buck’s laughing agreement, for his footsteps to retreat down the stairs.  Instead, after a short silence, a different voice spoke his name.  “Ezra.”

 

Ezra’s mouth suddenly ran dry, and he swallowed.  _Chris,_ he thought, unable to speak.

 

Apparently he could not avoid his doom tonight.

 

Slowly, he forced himself out of his chair, crossed to the door with reluctant steps.  He pasted on a smile, though he knew it wouldn’t fool Chris at all, then opened the door.  “Mister Larabee.”

 

Chris looked much improved from his excess of the night before.  Having seen him often enough with his morning-after whiskey head, however, Ezra could tell that it hadn’t quite disappeared.

 

“You gonna let me in?” Chris asked, voice low.

 

“Of course.” Ezra stepped back, gesturing for him to enter because it was expected.  He shut the door and resisted the urge to lean against it.  That damnable ache was back, sapping him of his strength and will… neither of which, he readily admitted, was particularly strong where Chris was involved.

 

“You all right?” Chris’s sharp gaze flicked over him, as if he were determining where Ezra was hurt.  “Buck told me…” Unaccountably, he trailed off.

 

Ezra rather wished he’d consumed more whiskey than he had during the course of the evening, because at least then what was coming wouldn’t hurt as much.  “I am uninjured,” he replied, deliberately repeating his words of the morning.  “I simply wanted a day to myself.”

 

Chris nodded, as if he understood, which Ezra supposed he might.  Chris was perhaps the most private person he knew, holding things close to his chest until forced to share.  That need for privacy had been a driving force behind Chris building his cabin.

 

“Now,” Ezra went on, forcing his smile wider, in the hopes that Chris would believe that he was fine, “you have seen for yourself that I am as well as can be, and I’m certain you have more important things than…”

 

“Ezra,” Chris interrupted, frowning.  “This is…” He blew out a breath.  “This is important.”

 

“Is it?” he asked, his tone hopeful, even as he cursed himself for hope.  He cast a longing look at the bottle on his desk, now out of reach.  Chris stood between him and it.

 

“Yes,” Chris replied firmly.  “What you said this morning… Jesus, Ezra.”  He scrubbed a hand over his face, and when it fell away again, Ezra was surprised to see that it trembled slightly.  “I haven’t been able to think about anything else all day.”  Then Chris met his eyes.  “I’m sorry.”

 

Ezra flinched, a too-honest reaction that he just couldn’t stop.  He dropped his gaze to stare down at his hands, and wished he was holding something just to keep them from fidgeting.  No one ever apologized to him without something worse to follow.

 

He heard Chris take a step toward him.  “Ezra, I don’t…”

 

“It’s all right, Mister Larabee,” he said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear himself.  And it was; he had expected nothing less.  Chris did not hold him in the same regard.  He did not… care.

 

The silence echoed in his ears for a long moment. “I don’t guess it is,” Chris said at last, his voice rough, “not if you’re callin’ me ‘Mister Larabee’ here in your room, and not even lookin’ at me.”

 

Confused, Ezra glanced up.  _Why would he care about… formalities when he doesn’t…_

 

Chris took another step closer.  “Not if you’re packin’ up your saddlebags.  You plannin’ to leave?”

 

He spared a guilty look at the saddlebags, clearly half-full, and licked his lips.  “I thought it… prudent to plan for any necessary contingency,” he said, picking his words with care.

 

Chris inhaled sharply.  “I’ve been a jackass,” he muttered, shaking his head.  “I won’t _make_ you stay, but I _want_ you to.”

 

Ezra frowned.  “But you… I don’t understand,” he said, his tone almost plaintive.

 

“Ezra,” Chris said, taking one more step, close enough to touch at last.  His dark eyes bored into Ezra until he was sure every secret he kept was laid bare.  “I’m here, and I’m not drunk.”

 

Ezra licked his lips and eased closer, until he could move his hand the slightest bit and touch Chris, as he’d been longing to do from the moment Chris had stepped inside.  The familiar scents of tobacco and warm leather filled him up when he breathed in, the intoxicating aroma he could now only associate with _Chris_ , lacking only the whiskey fumes that heralded Chris’s presence in his bed.

 

That ache in his chest swelled, filled him to overflowing and choked off all his words. He swallowed, and reached out, more uncertainly sure than he’d ever been, to rest his hand lightly on Chris’s chest.

 

He could feel Chris’s heartbeat, strong and steady under his fingers.

 

“Yes,” he said, and that dull pain he’d been feeling for so long sharpened, just for an instant, then faded away to nearly nothing.  His shoulders dropped a little in the sudden absence of tension, and he pressed his hand harder over Chris’s heart.   He managed “You are here,” before his throat closed up.

 

Chris’s hand covered his where it lay and squeezed tightly.

 

***

I don’t see you laugh

You don’t call me back

But you kiss me when you’re drunk

 

***

January 9, 2016

**Author's Note:**

> This is doing triple duty, in that it's filling the "unrequited pining" square on my [hc_bingo](http://hc-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) card, the "secret admirer square on my Mag7 bingo card (from [mag7daybook](http://mag7daybook.dreamwidth.org/) from a couple years ago and still hanging around), and the "if only you'd notice me - yearning and obliviousness" square on my unofficial cliche bingo card. Whew!


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